


Rise by Sin

by bloodsongs



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Merlin, Community: norsekink, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Loki finds himself lost in Vanaheim after Odin led a cruel war against the Jötnar. Years later, Loki meets and saves the life of the arrogant Asgardian prince, Thor, before he's promptly rewarded with the supposedly enviable position of being Thor’s manservant. They're both appalled at this turn of events — they can't stand each other!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> T for now, but this will, of course, contain slash.
> 
> Also, totally blaming (and loving) Kate for this, as she is a wicked enabler and was the one who pointed me in the direction of the Norsekink prompt in the first place. (laughs)
> 
> Written for the Norsekink prompt: "Merlin AU. Loki saves Thor's life, so Odin makes him Thor's manservant. At first they can't stand each other, but over time their feelings develop into something much stronger than friendship or brotherhood, and eventually sexy-times ensue."

The winds of war are strong and unforgiving, lashing about the Asgardian warriors as they slay frost giant after frost giant. Odin is at the forefront of them all, a dark and ominous presence in his glittering armour roaring commands in the biting cold of Jötunheim while his spear shines sharp and slick with the blood of fallen Jötnar.  
  
Cloaked in mist and his flickering seiðr, Loki runs, crushing the snow beneath his ice-blue feet. He does not know who started the avalanche that led to this dreadful crusade, but right now, in this cruel moment, his people are paying for it. Dearly.   
  
The Aesir are nothing the like of which he has ever laid eyes upon in his life, with their pale flesh and coloured eyes, their sneering red mouths. He would have been curious had they not invaded Jötunheim in a flash of brightness, spilling from a bridge of rainbow light with their swords and bloodlust. It is disconcerting to young Loki and his paltry number of years, Loki who has only read of warfare and bloodshed within whatever dusty tomes he has read in their ice palaces.   
  
Reality is so much harsher, and truth is a painful knife.  
  
His father is nowhere to be found, having shoved him aside with his brothers to hide before forming his own ice javelin to join the battle himself. Loki’s small fingers tremble as he frets, and he bites his lip as he tries not to cry for the deaths of his brothers. They had been separated during the skirmish, Helblindi and Býleistr’s hands slipping from his own as they ran to avoid the Æsir who were intent on slaughtering any Jötun they could get their hands on, even the children. Loki had found their dead bodies outside the palace later, hands still linked tightly and lovingly even with the blood seeping from their small chests.  
  
Disgust swells in his chest at the thought. The Aesir prided themselves of being warrior gods of noble origin and unparalleled honour, and yet here they were, slaying an entire race simply because… of glory? Of treasure? Loki shakes his head, red eyes blinking to see through the howling storm as he hides behind a rock. Lifeless bodies surround him at every turn, Jötun and Aesir alike, their spilled blood haphazard red on the snow just like a crude painting.   
  
It unsettles him.  
  
Loki dusts down the rough edge of the rock, sitting down on the snow with his back to it to rest, if only for a moment. No more running for now. He sighs and tilts his head back, shuts out the sounds of screams and strangled voices around him as lives are taken, eyes gouged out and swords and ice blades clash.  
  
A gloved hand darts out suddenly, warm and frightening, yanking him to his knees. Loki cries out, eyes wide in fear, and sees an Aesir before him. The Aesir’s smile is cutting and unkind, and the sound of him unsheathing his sword is the single most terrifying thing Loki has ever heard in his entire life just then.  
  
“Jötun,” he snarls as he lifts his weapon, pointing it at Loki. He spits the word like it is something vulgar, and Loki backs away from him slowly. “Your kind have proven a bane and a curse to us long enough; that ends today. The All-Father will have this realm!”   
  
He could never hope to truly outmaneouvre a warrior with a sword, Loki thinks in despair, his seiðr is nowhere that developed yet. He looks to the sky, to the stars and the other realms, weaves the words in his mind like a silent prayer.  
  
 _Please!_  
  
The sword swings, the glint of its edge something like finality.

It misses him, but barely. Fear crashes over Loki like a wave, drowning out everything else. Time seems to slow as his seiðr flares wildly around him in his panic, curling green flames swallowing him whole. Loki can feel himself fading into his seiðr, sounds and sights dying around him. 

The Aesir bellows in fury and charges at him. He pulls at Loki’s arm, ferocious, and Loki feels the strangest sensation overcoming him as his skin creeps white from where the god has touched him, even through the snakehide glove. Shock seizing his throat, Loki jerks away, looking down at himself in horror as his body shifts to take the appearance of an Asgardian instead of his winter-blue Jötun skin, his seiðr spiraling out of control.

The green flames surround him like a tempest, and they block out the Asgardian as everything around Loki dissolves into a blank darkness. 

And then, he’s falling.


	2. Deciding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been years, and Loki is still grappling with his past. He makes a key decision that will snap the final piece into place, that will intertwine his destiny with another he has yet to meet...

“Son,” a voice calls, from beyond the shadows, and then someone is shaking him gently. “Child. You’re having a bad dream.”

Loki opens his eyes blearily, and his vision swims into sharpness before him. “Eira?” He sweeps his long dark hair back from his head, wet with sweat. Loki sits up and takes in his surroundings, takes in a deep breath when he recognises the familiar warmth of Eira’s cottage; wood and hearth and fire.

“Me,” Eira replies dryly, but her smile is kind. She shuffles closer to Loki’s side, wiry gray hair tumbling from her bun, and strokes his cheek. “Are you well?”

“I am.” He leans in to her touch, so soothing like his mother’s, only without the bite of winter. “Thank you. It was just a nightmare.”

Eira sighs, and pulls him close to her in an embrace, sweat-soaked tunic and everything. Her tone is grim when she next speaks. “Were you dreaming of that time?”

“Always,” Loki says, and moves back to meet her gaze. “Nights rarely die without me dreaming of...” he pauses, hesitant, feeling hurt rush through him anew. Flashes of the invading Aesir, the brutal white of the snow and his brothers’ dead bodies come to him, unbidden. “Of what’s happened. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t found me.”

“Dropping out of the sky and everything, you practically fell on my cottage, child. It would’ve been difficult to ignore the small storm that spat you out, magic and all.” She pats his arm. “I’m relieved nobody saw you that first time.”

Loki tugs his sheets over his legs and stands up to pull and tie his usual working kerchief about his neck, a dark blue thing. It reminds him of his heritage. “Anyone else would’ve killed me on sight, Eira.” He turns to her, a genuine smile curving his lips as his fingers work the knot. Conflict and anguish war within him still, prowling panthers, but Eira’s kindness calms him. “Thank you for not putting an end to the strange blue child you found.”

Tutting, Eira walks over to him and tightens his neckerchief, stroking the rough edges of the cloth. “You foolish thing. How could I?” She smooths down his neckerchief, his tunic, looks up at his tall, gangly self. “Jötun or not, I’ve never subscribed to the Aesir’s ideals of eradicating all of their people. I’m Vanir, I’m in every position to say that.” 

Stepping back, Eira admires her handiwork, and tucks a stray lock of Loki’s hair behind his ear. “You were but a small thing, out cold and lying in a puddle of snow where it wasn’t snowing, not in Vanaheim. And when I touched you to see if you were still alive, well.” She grips his arm now, strong, and chuckles. “Imagine my surprise when you morphed, blue skin melting into white. Gave me a fright, it did.”

Loki’s a good head taller, so he smiles down at her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, looking contemplative. “The Aesir must’ve triggered some kind of innate shapeshifting ability I didn’t know I had,” he begins slowly. “I don’t know how, but...”

“It doesn’t matter, Loki. My son, who’s not my son, but I love you all the same.” Eira opens the door, and they step out into the sunlight together. “Even if I am not your mother by blood, I am warmed that you would let me care for you, after all you’ve gone through.”

“No, thank you.” Loki’s voice is quiet and affectionate. “I owe everything that I am to you. Mother.”

“Oh, you.” She laughs, and sits him down by their porch. “Just wait here, I’ll get some broth out for us to share together.”

Loki squints out at the open sky and lands before him, at the border of their little village. Bountiful gardens and ploughed fields unfold like the endless pages of a scroll, a breathtaking sight that he now knows as well as the back of his hand. 

His new life, he muses, sighing. He helps Eira with the farming most days, performing any physical work she might need help with. They harvest all sorts of vegetables come the sweltering summers of Vanaheim, toiling under the sun. Loki is still pale despite the rays but now he’s all lean and wiry, bunched muscles thanks to the hours he spends on the field.

He fidgets absently with his neckerchief, a nervous tic he’s developed. It’s one of the only tells he possesses, or so he’d like to believe. In Jötunheim, Loki had devoured books through the hours when he wasn’t training for combat as a seidmadr, learning smooth words of diplomacy and ways to tell little white lies, spinning them to his advantage. Never for malice, only pranks and trickery, and he’d seldom been caught at it. He gets enough practice at lying even now; polite redirection when the other curious villagers ask about him and his past, his schooling his features into a warm mask when Eira asks him if all is well with him when he’s brooding. Loki has never really been able to shake the habit of thumbing his neckerchief when he’s worried, however; it’s like he’s drawn to it, seeking the comforting rough touch of the cloth to ground him in those moments. At least Eira can’t tell when he does it.

She walks out again, small feet echoing on the wooden floor as she sets two small bowls of broth steadily upon the table, handing him a spoon. Loki accepts the proffered bowl gladly. Eira’s porridge has been described as... unique, an acquired taste, but Loki has never really found it anything but delicious. She beams at Loki every time he does partake of her cooking, and glares at her neighbours when they continue to sheepishly decline her invitations to dinner, guilty looks written all over their faces. He takes a sip of the turnip broth and shrugs, wondering what all the fuss is about.

Eira’s thoughtful, spooning her own bowl without really eating anything, looking at Loki almost expectantly. “I’ve been thinking,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to his fingers as he gently heats up his bowl with a touch of seiðr. Eira’s always been concerned bout his magic; not afraid of him, but _for_ him. “You should find a tutor for your magic. For your seiðr.”

Her suggestion takes him by surprise. It’s the first time she’s brought up anything of the sort. “Pardon?”

She puts down her bowl and reaches across the small table to squeeze his hand. “I think you were meant for greater things. Perhaps there is someone who can help you with controlling your seiðr, help you keep it in check while also helping you realise your full potential.” 

He affects a petulant expression. “This is about the time I accidentally blew up the kitchen, isn’t it.”

Eira laughs and swats at him. “You impertinent child! It’s not about that.”

“You’ve never let me step near it since!”

“You do have to be more careful.” She sits back. “Seiðr is for the wise, those who would venture beyond our world and what is in it to learn of the unknown. There is only so much you can learn of it in our small village; only so much that you can achieve.”

“Ah, the mother hen is shooing her chick away,” Loki remarks jokingly, though he does feel a little wounded at the implication that she seems keen on sending him away to look for a tutor. “That’s a first.”

“Don’t you agree, though? I know you spend all your free time with books.”

Loki can’t help it. He glances towards the city, and thinks of almost everything he’s read. Vanaheim has a treasure trove of books, it’s true, and he should know — he’s browsed so many shelves, taken so many books out of their dusty corners to probe and pore through the endless pages of words and pictures and _knowledge._ And yet, he knows it’s not enough. 

“Books aren’t really sufficient to learn more about seiðr, no,” he concedes, with some regret. How many times had he wished for a teacher to instruct him in his sorcerous ways, for a place to practice seiðr openly? While the Vanir were pleasant enough, they still regarded the seiðrmaðr with a level of suspicion and wariness. Loki didn’t understand it, but after Eira’s hushed warnings when he was but a child, he has come to understand that it always better to keep his seiðr a bit of a secret, something to guard and protect.

He looks down at his hand, _wills_ the change to happen, thinks of frost and eyes darkest ruby red. The back of his palm blends into blue, Jötun-cold, delicate runes trembling into existence over his knuckles. He can almost feel the winter. A blink of a moment, and then his hand’s pale pink again, just like any other Aesir or Vanir. “I also need someone to help me with my shapeshifting,” he murmurs, realisation dawning.

“Yes, child,” Eira says sadly, her eyes a little damp. “As I said, you have to be careful. I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to you.”

“When am I ever not careful?” Loki’s voice is warm, light, trying to diffuse the heaviness in the air.

Eira simply raises an eyebrow in response.

“Well, all right, a few times.” He admits.

“No one can discover you are Jötun. You have to strengthen your shapeshifting, to hold your form in place.” She’s squeezing his hand so hard now, it hurts. “You shouldn’t have to be ashamed of your heritage like this,” Eira rubs a thumb over the back of his hand, where his runes had flickered into visibility just scarce moments earlier. “But for your survival... you should seek out a teacher, a master, a scholar of seiðr.”

“In Vanaheim?” Loki asks, incredulous. He’s searched discreetly for someone, anyone that could offer some tutelage for seiðr in the villages, the city. Loki’s made inquiries, casually asked and tricked some librarians into revealing more information than they were willing to part with, slyly flirted with scholars, but to no avail. Vanaheim just didn’t have that much information on seiðr.

Eira shakes her head. “Asgard.”

That makes him sit up. “They’re not exactly accommodating when it comes to the seiðrmaðr either,” he says reluctantly, and then his thoughts waver. “Or am I wrong?”

“I have an acquaintance.” Eira folds her hands in her lap. “He’s dabbled with some seiðr in his youth, and he is extremely well-read. Stígr is also a court physician in the castle, and I’ve already asked him if he could look into job openings for you. Lodgings, too.”

A pang of hurt rushes through him at how she’d not consulted him beforehand. It’s petty, he knows, but Loki gives in to it anyway. “Couldn’t you have at least asked me beforehand as to whether I’d want to go in the first place, before making the decision in my stead?”

She looks stubborn, but he doesn’t miss the flash of guilt. “It’s what best for you, Loki.”

“Even so.” He tries to keep a flare of indignation at bay.

“I’m sorry,” Eira says quietly, after a minute or two of shared tension. “It’s not that I want you to leave, Loki, but the things they would _do_ to you if they discovered you. I fear for you—”

Severed fingers and dark blood on snow so white it’s almost blinding, a stark image like a painting on a canvas. The painters are the Asgardians, Loki thinks dully, their swords their brushes, their art.

Eira stops, as if recalling the massacre. Word of it had even reached the Vanir all those years ago, a brutal and bloody tale that would strengthen Odin’s legend for years to come; his most successful and cruel campaign yet.

“I know very well what they’re capable of.” Loki says at last, and he is as shocked as Eira is by the dark edge of bitterness in his voice. He sounds like someone completely different.

“My boy,” Eira tries. 

Loki stands up, willing himself to calm down. “No, I acknowledge that you’re right. Eira, I just... need some time. Leave me be a while.”

He doesn’t look back, even as she watches him walk inside helplessly, the door slamming shut with a frustrated wave of his hand behind him.

Sitting himself down on the messy gray sheets of his bed, Loki breathes in, deeply. He touches the books on the side of his bed, various titles mocking him and his ignorance. Loki floats one of them over, dipping gently in the air, pages rustling. “ _The Origins of Seiðr,_ ” he reads, sneering. He flings it across the room, where it hits the wall with a satisfying thunk and falls to the wooden floor, yellowed pages falling open with words and words that speak of history and concepts but nothing of meaning, nothing of actual seiðr, nothing that _matters._

It’s not that he’s angry with Eira, he knows that. Nothing about this messed up state of affairs is her fault, not in the slightest. Loki is angry at himself, mostly, for being able to truly temper and forge his seiðr into something that he can really manipulate and control on his own.

Seiðr is dangerous if he cannot handle it. If he should lose control one day, really descend into wildness with his magic, the consequences might be too distressing to bear. Loki knows he has considerable power, has felt it thrumming darkly and insistently under his skin ever since he was a child, and especially since a storm of shadows wrapped around him and deposited him neatly in the middle of Vanaheim, saving his life. But Loki has set fire to things involuntarily and wilted crops when he couldn’t reign in his touch of ice, leaving them with a less than ideal harvest one dark fall. He’s slowed time, his heart beating painfully in his chest as Eira looked at him, her eyes wide while he was both excited and terribly afraid at the same time: _what can I do_ , he’d wondered, and he’d then closed his eyes. _What can I not do, and what happens when it all slips beyond my grasp?_

It is then that he decides. A teacher it is, to help hone his craft.

He gestures with his hand, and the door swings inward softly, creaking as if in greeting. Eira is just outside, the back of her knuckles hovering inches from where the door has just been a few seconds prior, preparing to knock. She clears her throat, smiling weakly. “I’ll never get used to that.”

Loki offers her a smile in return, genuine and apologetic. “You do try.” She does, Loki knows. She tries, oh, how she tries. She loves him like her own, despite what he is, for who he is. Loki knows as much, and loves her all the more fiercely for it.

He takes a deep breath.

“I’m going to Asgard.”


	3. Their First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, you should take on a seiðrmaðr your age, who matches your capabilities in turn! Or are you more craven than I?” Loki hisses, letting fire flare to life in his hands. The boy’s looking at him with wide eyes now, admiring and fearful, flicking his gaze between Loki and the blond warrior.
> 
> “You,” the warrior starts. “You’re one of them!”

Asgard is  _loud_.

It's also crowded and uncouth in the square, where the hustle and bustle is at its busiest and most obnoxious. Honestly, Loki's rather taken aback, because he didn't expect Asgard to be  _this_ full of people. Despite the cheerful chaos he's been somehow sucked into by simply setting foot into the marketplace after his long, long journey through the mountains, Loki finds he rather likes it.

Smiling, he accepts some bread a young girl with an apron hands him, telling Loki earnestly that her family makes the freshest and most delicious pastries in all of the Nine Realms. "Go on," she urges him. "You don't have to buy this, but really, give it a try!" 

He relents, and it really is pretty good; Vanaheim has fresh wheat and everything, but Loki's never tasted anything quite like it. "Thank you," he laughs, and presses a quick kiss to the back of her flour-dusty hand, letting his green eyes shine earnestly at her. She blushes and stammers, averting her gaze from his amused expression. 

Loki later walks away with another few hot, fresh pastries in his arms. He grins to himself; he's never really had a problem getting free things from impressionable young women (or men), and he never says no if they're offering. Still, the Asgardians here are nice. He's unfamiliar with their accent, more posh and melodic compared to the roughshod tones of the Vanir, but he thinks he could get used to it.

"What's the occasion?" He asks brightly, when he's charmed another young man into conversing with him and parting with several meat skewers he's very keen for Loki to sample, on top of "anything else you might like to try any time, only because you're stunning." Loki ignores the blatant flirtation but accepts the skewers anyway.

"You're not from around here, are you? It's nothing much," the man scoffs, waving. "The market's always busy, but it's crazier than usual this time of year. I've never seen the point of it, personally, but the Asgardian royalty make the celebrations over the fall of Jötunheim a really big deal. There's fairs and everything."

Loki's smile feels frozen on his face. "Do they, now."

"His Majesty started the annual celebrations about ten, fifteen years ago. I wouldn't know, I was but a child at the time. I knew we were at war with the Jötnar, but having festivals to celebrate our victory over another realm seems a little over the top, don't you think?" He smiles at Loki winningly, unaware of the turmoil flashing behind Loki's carefully guarded expression. "It draws a crowd, though, so I'm not complaining."

He leaves the stall later, contemplative, looking up at the giant monument of Odin in the square. He's never really seen how Odin looked like, so the face plastered onto the figure riding the unmoving, rearing horse is foreign. His seiðr stirs within him, restless, as Loki tamps down on the urge to destroy the statue to smithereens, for all the good it would achieve.

A festival, he thinks dully, keeping his eyes downcast. Rejoicing in the slaughter of hundreds, thousands of people. Senseless war, senseless strife, all for the pretense of a greater but ultimately hollow crown. If Odin hadn't invaded Jötunheim then, if Loki remained the young heir to the throne, he thinks he wouldn't have made a good ruler. Loki snorts gently to himself at the thought: conquering kingdoms, hurting people from different realms along with their own to further their influence... how utterly pointless. 

There are musicians, mimes, small performance troupes with their little corners and intricate props. His stomach twists when he sees a bard and some puppeteers under a gazebo re-enacting the battle between Odin and Laufey with crude puppets, making exaggerated commentary as Laufey falls in disgrace to Odin's spear. There are cheers, boos, and cries for more, for encores.

"All hail Odin-Allfather!" Someone shouts from the crowd.

There's a whoop of agreement, and then an old woman croaks, "Down with the Jötnar!"

"And so Asgard triumphed over Jötunheim," the leading minstrel of the troupe declares loudly, frowning at the interruptions. "Gungnir in hand, Odin snatched victory from the maws of the barbarians, and the realm of ice fell to the Aesir, proud and strong and eternal."

Loki grits his teeth; there's a roaring in his ears. He tightens his hands into fists and narrows his eyes. The little wooden puppet of Odin catches on fire, and then the puppeteers are shouting and panicking as they scramble away from it, rushing to gather everything else up in their arms. Loki turns his back on them, the anger an unwelcome rush of heat in his body, unheeding of the cries of dismay as the crowd disperses and they fail to put the small fire out.

The small burning, bearded face of the doll with its eyepatch mocks him. Loki leans against a wall to catch his breath. He can burn all the small puppets he likes or cause trouble for bards of troupes who sing and regale tales of Odin's greatness, but that won't change anything.

Jötunheim is still lost to him, to his people, and Odin's a war general who rode home in glory after he defeated the ruler of the frost giants and slaughtered warriors and babes alike. Loki's just a lost and fallen prince in a realm that would reject him and his heritage at the merest hint of his true nature, a prince whose pride and culture counts for nothing now.

The fire's being put out now, the smoke stark and black against the warm colours of the market. Loki can't even muster satisfaction at the sight of the minor destruction he's caused. He's young, but he feels old and weary and bitter all at once.

Loki pushes his conflicted emotions to the back of his mind, focusing on the here and now. There's laughter coming from his right, near an open space with what look to be knights and a small gaggle of spectators crowding around them, inquisitive and noisy. He needs a distraction, anyway, so he quietly slinks over, unnoticeable in his dull brown tunic. Loki's not worried about his Aesir guise giving him away, but he doesn't feel really in control of his emotions at the moment.

"Oh, come on!" There's a young man laughing, his voice low and rich, flanked by other youths in armour, weapons at their side. "That can't be all you've got!"

He studies the smirking stranger with interest, even if his laugh grates on Loki's nerves just a tad. Arrogant the young man might be, with his grin cocky and condescending as he moves in a circle around something — or someone — that Loki can't see from this angle, but there's no denying he's really rather handsome. Loki's seen (and seduced, though he'd deny it to Eira's face if she ever asked; there are some things he'd never confess to her on pain of death) his fair share of comely maidens and good-looking rogues in Vanaheim, but this man surpasses them easily. He looks like an illustration from scriptures of legends come alive, beautiful and proud.

That being said, he does sound like a right prat, though.

"Please, sire," a quivery voice sounds from somewhere behind the warrior. When he moves away from the source of that voice, red cape flourishing behind him as he throws and catches what looks to be a rotten fruit, Loki sees a scrawny boy scarcely his own age crouching behind what looks to be a magical barrier. 

Confused, intrigued and feeling somewhat indignant on the boy's behalf, Loki inches closer, murmuring half—hearted apologies as he elbows his way through the crowd. He peers over the shoulders of a few girls, grateful for his height.

"Please, what?" The warrior rumbles mockingly, echoing the boy's words, before he throws the rot-softened fruit at him, smiling widely as it splatters against the barrier. The boy swipes an arm up to protect himself instinctively, his shield flaring as he winces at the impact. 

Loki wonders just how long he's had to endure this.

A maiden with her dark hair in a severe ponytail next to him coughs pointedly, and the man pauses to look at her. "Don't you think that's a bit much, my lord?"

"Are you questioning me, Sif?" The golden stranger's grinning at her, too, but there's a hint of steel to his words. He's someone used to obeisance. Sure enough, the girl, Sif, lowers her eyes, although not without a flash of frustration in them before she murmurs, "No, sire." 

Loki feels some admiration towards her, for at least attempting to stand up for a commoner in the face of this man — probably a senior fighter among their ranks despite his age. She called him  _my lord,_ Loki recalls; he must be a nobleman’s son, then, someone of the court.  It can't be easy being a female warrior and having to constantly prove your worth to the other warriors. Sif is the only girl there, slim in build but looking every bit like she belongs with them. She doesn't look angry at the man in a way that would imply her pride is stung, though; her gaze that rests on the boy who's being bullied is concerned, helpless almost.

“Right,” he says to no one in particular, making his decision.

When the bully — there’s no other name for scum like him, no matter how high-born, in Loki’s opinion — picks up another fruit and readies his aim, Loki steps forward, gently pushing the curious spectators in front of him aside. He clears his throat, and the man’s gaze snaps to him.

“I do believe that’s enough,” he begins, taking in the man’s appearance fully now that he’s closer to him. There’s a faint dusting of light stubble on the man’s face, he notices, right before said man’s face breaks into a disbelieving grin. “You’ve had your fun pushing someone around already, haven’t you, my friend? That’s enough,” Loki repeats, trying for a friendly smile of his own.

The man throws his head back, and for the briefest of moments, he takes Loki’s breath away; damn him, the smug bastard really is attractive, all hard lines and chiseled features. It irritates Loki, and he feels his irritation climb when the man opens his mouth. “Have we met, stranger?” His voice is so thickly layered with disdain that Loki suddenly finds himself wishing he’ll choke on it.

“No,” he forces out,  _really_ irritated now that someone so beautiful could be such a jerk.

“You called me a friend, though, didn’t you?” The man steps closer, moving around him slowly, and Loki’s heart is thudding furiously in his chest from the proximity. He’d slap himself if he could; he reminds himself fiercely that there’s nothing appealing about this man in any way whatsoever other than in the physical sense. “Eh, peasant?”

The man’s companions laugh uneasily. Loki bristles, countless retorts at the ready, just lying on the tip of his tongue. “Sure,” he replies, deceptively quiet. “That was my mistake.” He pauses for effect. “No friend of mine could be such an absolute arse.”

The stranger stills, completely, almost as if paralysed for a few seconds, and then he’s bursting into raucous laughter. “My word!” He gestures at his lackeys. “Did you just hear what this fool said to me?” He turns back to Loki, looking  _really_ amused, now. Loki doesn’t understand why, but neither does he really want to. He’d rather not have anything to do with someone like this.

“I called you an  _arse,_ ” he bites out, emphasising each word, “Because you are one. And a bully, to boot. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

“I can’t believe it,” the man crows, still. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Loki snorts, notes the glint of battle-hunger in the other man’s eyes, and prepares himself mentally for a fight. “I don’t care who the fuck you are, you’re a swine who puts others down just because you can. You’re a noble, I suppose, being well-dressed and everything, surrounded by fellow fighters and warriors who trust you and look to you for leadership. And this,  _this,_  is how you treat your people?”

Interestingly enough, guilt flashes quickly over the man’s face, but it’s gone almost immediately. “That  _boy,_ ” the man says slowly, as if rummaging for an excuse, “Is a seiðrmaðr. He’s not exactly powerless, and I’m entitled to my fun when I see one of them cowards around here, hiding behind their magic.”

Well, that’s about the dumbest thing that Loki’s ever heard. “He’s a  _child,_ you fool! And if you think magic is cowardly, then...” Recklessness rings through him, rough and wild, and his seiðr  _sings_ with it, restless around this impossible and infuriating stranger before him. 

Loki doesn’t stop to think how his magic has never reacted to anyone like this before, doesn’t stop to  _think_ , really, which is the only explanation he’ll have later for why he acts so stupidly within the next moment. 

“Well, you should take on a seiðrmaðr your age, who matches your capabilities in turn! Or are you more craven than I?” Loki hisses, letting fire flare to life in his hands. The boy’s looking at him with wide eyes now, admiring and fearful, flicking his gaze between Loki and the blond warrior.

“You,” the warrior starts. “You’re one of  _them!”_

“Aha.” The other man’s voice isn’t exactly full of wonder or even disgust, it echoes oddly of eagerness. Still, Loki recognises an opportunity to shame and embarrass when he sees one; he’s too skilled with arguments and words to not use it. “So you admit you’re too cowardly to take on someone like myself in combat, then, when you’d gladly push around a skinny boy who can’t defend himself against you?”

“I could, too,” The boy mumbles, but Loki hushes him.

The man straightens, placing a hand on the hammer that rests from his belt. Loki eyes his choice of weapon, surprised. He’d thought that only the prince of Asgard wielded a hammer; it must be catching on, if you actually had trends when it came to weaponry. The man stops, moves his hand away from his hammer, and then looks at Loki again, arms outstretched as if beckoning Loki to approach him for an embrace. “Well, come at me,” he mocks, eyes shining with mirth. They’re really, really blue, Loki thinks distractedly. “I won’t even use a weapon, if your magic is that good.”

“You’ll regret that,” Loki bites, and then there’s no warning for him as the man shoots out a hand in a deft punch, making to grab for him. Loki sidesteps him neatly, having participated in his fair share of brawls in the village, reaching out a hand to singe the man’s  armour. He smiles as the man yelps from the heat, drawing back.

“What’s the matter,  _my lord?”_  He teases, in a completely different tone from what the girl, Sif, had used to address him. “Am I too much for you to handle? We’ve barely started, I don’t want to get bored of you yet.”

A snarl, and then the man kicks out at him. He’s swift; Loki ducks, but it grazes his cheek and cuts him, there’s the smallest line of red on his face, he’s sure, but then he’s opening his palm so that light bursts in front of him to distract his opponent. The man really is a good fighter, because he notices the first blooming explosion of light Loki’s cradling in his palm and closes his eyes before Loki’s trick can do much damage, whirling around with his fist again to try and catch Loki off-balance.

He succeeds, unfortunately, and Loki’s thrown to the ground with all the breath knocked out of him from that powerful blow. Loki barely has time to pull himself to his feet when the man’s hauling him upright and yanking his arms behind him in a tight grip, threatening. He  flinches in shock from the unexpected pain, his eyes blazing, and then he’s meeting the man’s gaze; he looks triumphant, with a spark of curiosity.

“I ask you again.” His breathing is even, as if Loki really didn’t give him much of a fight. Loki hates him so,  _so_  much right now. “Do you not know who I am?”

“No.” Loki gives the same answer. He still doesn’t care. “You’re not the king, that much I know, he’s got an eyepatch. Do I look like I give a damn?” Prats are prats, no matter how blue their blood, no matter how high up, no matter how attracti—

—well,  _that’s_  a dangerous line of thought.

The blond smiles. It’s almost genuine; Loki fights to keep a blush from rising to his face. It drops back to amusement shortly after, and right on to smug-as-fuck territory when his smile widens, showing a hint of teeth. “My name is _Thor_.”

Loki groans quietly, grimacing as recognition sinks in like lead.

Thor, the _prince of Asgard_.


	4. Chapter 4

Loki scowls. He's bored.

"Ooh, I'm Prince _Thor_ ," he says aloud, in a sing-song voice, to no one in particular. A night in a dingy place like this would drive anyone restless, Loki can't imagine how criminals deal with this for the long-term. "Look at me and my bulky muscles and shiny armour, see how I bully anyone and everyone into doing my bidding!" 

"Oy, shut your fool mouth!" Some guard shouts down the gloomy passage. "You can't talk about the prince like that!"

“I can call him whatever I bloody well please!” Loki yells back, feeling rebellious, slamming his body against the bars. They rattle, shaking, and then another guard stomps over to his cell with an old wooden bucket. Loki’s eyes widen, his magic bristling in indignation under the clamp of the cold iron shackles around his wrists rendering him powerless as the guard takes an almighty swing and douses him in freezing cold water.

His dark hair hangs wet and limp, his tunic clinging pathetically to his lanky limbs. The guard’s laughing as he walks away, and Loki calls him every insulting name he can think of under the sun while he shakes the chill off, unable to cast a quick warming spell to dry himself.

Tilting his head back against the harsh, scraping feel of the gray walls behind him, he contemplates setting the filthy hay in the cell he's cooped up in ablaze out of spite. Not like he can do that with the crawling wrongness of the iron on his skin, but it's an entertaining thought. They'd probably extend his stay in the dungeons even further, though, so he drops the idea.

"Loki, was it?"

The soft voice pulls him from his meandering. Loki turns to look at the kindly stranger, an old man with messy white hair and severe-looking robes sweeping into his cell as the guard from earlier huffs and walks away, keys jangling from his waist. Huh. He'd not even registered that the cell had been opened. 

"That is my name, yes," Loki begins warily.

The man smiles at him. "I'm Stígr. Eira wrote to me about you. I was expecting you to come by my lodgings in the castle sometime over the past few days, but then I heard that the prince had thrown a, what did he say now, an impertinent and unruly village boy into the dungeons for speaking out of turn, and I thought I would come and take a look since that rather matched Eira's description of you."

Loki just raises an eyebrow, but he feels oddly comfortable with Stígr and his twinkling eyes. "The lies Eira feeds everyone else about me, seriously."

"Positively wicked." Stígr nods in agreement, but then he looks pointedly at Loki's sitting cross-legged on the cold dungeon floor, shackles and all. "Did you _really_ antagonise the prince?" His tone isn't rebuking, not exactly; Loki can sense the hint of amusement and disapproval both in his words. 

"Not on purpose! The prince is an idiot," Loki replies automatically, and winces, because his smart mouth was what had gotten him into this situation in the first place. Even so, he can't bring himself to regret it. "I would do it again if I had to; bullying a young boy and abusing his position, that's just not right."

Stígr tosses him a small key and then clears his throat, as if considering his words carefully. He's still smiling, though. "I don't want to make excuses for the prince, he has his occasional... ah, questionable moments. Don't be too hard on him, he's young yet. Thor's genuinely a better man than you think he is."

The shackles fall with loud clangs to the ground as he unlocks them, and Loki rubs his wrists gingerly as he stands up. He plucks at his tunic and makes a face, because it's in a horrid state after his filthy night in the dungeons. "After his stunning display of pettiness yesterday, surely you can't blame me for thinking otherwise. Age is not an excuse, Stígr."

Shaking his head, Stígr motions for Loki to follow him out of the dungeons, his long court robes trailing behind him. "I suppose not. Look at it this way. He's the prince and a fine warrior whose shoulders are heavy from responsibility. Thor is maturing and learning more about his duties and his people every day, but he inevitably makes mistakes."

Loki grunts, disbelieving, turning yet another corner towards a more habitable part of the castle. The dungeons were _terrible_. "Whatever the case, I'd rather not have anything to do with him."

"Loki." Stígr's tone is chiding, but he nods at him and opens the door to his chambers, striding in. Loki sighs, aware of how he's acting like a child, but Thor had really infuriated him. He was a prince himself once (oh, doesn't that thought _cut_ so cruelly), and even when he was a boy, he'd understood his duties and obligations to his people he knew he would serve and protect in the future. 

The Jötnar were disciplined, a race of warriors, and _strong -_ but Loki believed in fairness, not oppression, even if some others in Jötunheim did not share his opinions. He would never have treated a young Jötun boy the way Thor had, especially if the boy wasn't truly able to defend himself and had to submit to someone of a higher station because of his background. The Asgardians really are brutes, in his mind.

Stígr has a point in that he's only interacted with Thor once. He should give Thor the benefit of the doubt or at least see how Thor is like in other situations; perhaps he would be dignified or respectful to others in court? 

Still, Loki muses, the fact that Thor had treated someone of a lower station than himself in such a manner was extremely telling. Right now, Loki just thinks of him as a great bully.

He hears the sound of a throat clearing behind him, and turns to look at Stígr, who's raising an eyebrow at him. "Did you listen to a word I just said?"

Flushing in embarrassment, Loki averts his eyes. "Um, my thoughts were elsewhere."

Stígr puts away some of the vials on his table and gestures absently for him to take a seat. Loki edges past a really suspicious-looking glass tube full of a strange bubbling black concoction and sits across from him.

"You have seiðr." It's not a question. Stígr's eyes are intent on his, and Loki feels the tiniest bit uncomfortable at the scrutiny.

"Yes."

"I understand that wasn't Eira's main concern. She was worried about your other latent talent because you can't control it."

It stings, remembering Eira pressuring him to leave, even though he knows where she is coming from. He lets the bitterness fade for now. "Shapeshifting is something I can control," Loki argues half-heartedly, stubborn. "If I focus. It slips sometimes, and I admit I'll have to get some guidance in that department, but otherwise, I think I'm doing fine."

"I don't doubt that," Stígr says patronisingly, and despite himself, Loki bristles at that. "You must be good to hide your seiðr like this, and your true nature. It feels smooth to me, natural, like another extension of you. But what happens when you can't concentrate fully on holding that illusion together?"

Loki sighs, acknowledging the point. "That's when it slips, yes. My adopted form flickers, and it takes a lot of energy to force it back into place."

"Shapeshifting is very challenging to pull off." Stígr's voice is gentle. "As I said, you're good at this. Very good. Perhaps too good, Loki; Eira said with no small amount of alarm that she found you like this when you were a child. You must be born with a natural inclination for it. I'm surprised you're able to sustain your appearance as consistently as you do."

Loki doesn't know what to say to that. "I've never actively done it. It just held, and I let it. You have to blend in to not stand out in a crowd, especially in Vanaheim or Asgard."

"Alas," Stígr agrees. "I bear you no ill will at all, and you seem a good lad. Eira is a very dear friend of mine, and any child of hers, adopted or otherwise, I will also treat as my own."

"Ah, but Stígr," Loki begins, a little cruelly. "Do you know who I am?" 

Stígr just looks at him, calm and unyielding.

"No," Loki amends, quietly. "Do you know _what_ I am?"

"I've heard," Stígr says, and waves a hand.

Flames roar to life around Loki in a tight ring, vicious and sudden. The burst of heat and colour takes Loki by surprise, and before he realises what he's done, he's stretched out his hand and frozen the fire around him.

"What did you do that for?" Loki spits, furious and alarmed, his heart jumping like a wild rabbit's. "You could've killed me!"

Stígr doesn't answer, not at first. He curls his fingers around the cloth at Loki's wrist, yanking him forwards. "Look," Stígr says, pulling Loki's sleeve up forcefully to reveal shades of blue and carvings of runes.

Loki takes a sharp breath.

"I know who you are, Loki." Stígr lets Loki's arm go, pulling back as his palm screams red from the touch of frost. "And so do you. But if you're not careful, the whole of Asgard will find out."

"Is that a threat?" Loki asks sarcastically, still shaken by the fire. He exhales and closes his eyes, feeling his Vanaheimr skin slip back into place.

"Don't be stupid, boy," Stígr admonishes. It's the first time Loki's heard him lose his composure in any small way. "I told you I'd take care of you on behalf of Eira, and you look like you're going to need to get used to how things are here in Asgard. Your having seiðr is not the problem; seiðrmaðrs might not be common in Asgard, but they exist. People know of them, and sometimes expect them, even if they are wary. Jotnar, on the other hand..."

Loki knows when he's lost an argument. "I did say I would need help with shapeshifting, yes. I apologise for my little display of temper, then." He's not used to apologising; Loki would be the first to make a note of that. "I've been careful, but if what just happened was any indication, I've probably not been careful enough."

"No," Stígr agrees.

"Well, then." Loki looks at the back of his palm and wills the winter-blue into existence again as it creeps slowly from the back of his knuckles to the thin curve of his wrist. He meets Stígr's eyes as the air around him crackles with cold and seidr.

"Shall we start?"


End file.
